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I heard Narcissa say once she had no interest in teaching the Cayuse, that they were too “hardheaded” to be taught. I did not find that so. But she would not have complained to the Board. Marcus had been dismissed too in the letter campaign.

To this day I remain confused. I heard later that everyone agreed that “our” differences had been settled, that complaints against various families would cease (meaning Mr. Smith would stop sending his letters of concern to the Board) and I was relieved. But then Mr. S let it slip that part of what made things settle was Marcus chose to head east to plead our case to the Board and explain the difficulties with Asa Smith and his haughty ways (God forgive my using unkind thoughts about that man) and that Mr. Smith would head to Hawaii. Oh the poor Halls will have to deal with him now!

And then the blow that night, as the moon cast glitter over the Clearwater River. Mr. S told me he agreed that we would stop teaching in Sahaptin, use only English.

The very thing that made our work thrive he agreed to throw out, to have my students repeat things in English by rote, words they neither understood nor took into their hearts. I was ready to write a letter of complaint to the Board myself for the foolishness of men!

6
Cookstove Wisdom

Men can be so foolish! Why would my father marry a woman who knew nothing of cooking and couldn’t even boil eggs? It became
my
duty to teach her. “Dry kindling starts the fire in the fireplace. Then we bring in green wood because dry wood burns too quickly. We need at least an hour to make coals.”

“You just burn it up?”

“Coals. We cook over coals, not open fire. Did you never watch anyone cook?”

“We had coal stoves in Boston.” She smiled. “Perhaps I’ll ask your father to have one shipped here.”

“Can you cook on it? I’d support the expenditure.”

“I can’t cook on it, but you could.” She had a little-girl voice when she was caught in an insufficiency. “Maybe you could teach me.”

“When the coals are just right, died down a bit, we start adding wood, to maintain the temperature we need.” I showed her
how to swing the bar that held the iron
S,
how to use the tongs to lift the bale on the smaller cast-iron pots to hang them on the
S
, then swing it back over the coals. “If the stew gets too hot, you can swing it out and stir.” I handed her the tongs so she could try, and to her credit, she did all right. I imagined her getting burned and knew she’d be alarmed at my treatment: layering on the scrapings of a raw potato instead of medicine. “Careful you don’t burn yourself.”

“Oh, honey, let’s not talk about possible problems.” She patted my hand. “That’s what brings them on.”

Her comment was so foreign to how I controlled my world that I stood speechless.

I finished my instruction, cutting pieces of venison into the stew, giving her dried carrots to slip into the water. I don’t remember much of what else I told her that morning. Rachel had handed me a pondering that sent me walking. I spent my days conjuring up concerns, believing that would keep them from happening; poor Rachel seemed to think such thoughts just gave trouble an invitation.

“That woman will kill you. Neither she nor your dad seem capable of seeing how hard you work.” Mr. Warren and I rode our horses side by side up the Territorial Road north of Brownsville in the fall after Rachel’s arrival. I’d removed my shoes that hung on either side of Nellie’s neck, let the air cool my toes. Our rides happened infrequently, as Mr. Warren worked to raise money for his herd.

“No, I shouldn’t complain to you so much. She’s really all right. Just so unlike my mother, from her bulk to her sense of fashion to her lack of skills. My mother could do anything and she did it with a gracious heart.”

“And so can you.” He leaned across the space between us and put his hand over mine.

“I’m not so sure about that gracious heart part,” I said.

I rode bareback on Nellie, my dress pulled up above my calves to reveal bare feet and a touch more skin than was really proper for a young lady. His hand felt like warm butter, quelling the small uncertainty I sometimes felt around him. He would appear out of nowhere while I hung pumpkin slices to dry in the barn rafters, or while I strung beans in the shade at the side of the house. Like a slow sunrise he’d be there, sometimes not even coming near the house, but close enough for me to see him staring. The uneasiness of surprise lessened when we rode together.

“Rachel’s good with the little ones. Martha loves looking at
Godey’s
with her, and she plays dolls with Millie—”

“While you’re stitching up your father’s pants, I suspect.”

He was right about that.

“They love to have her read to them. She’s reading Washington Irving’s
Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus
. Millie loves adventures.” I enjoyed the stories too, while I stirred the stews that would feed us. I missed reading to the girls.

“I read a Washington Irving book once.”

“
Rip
Van Winkle
?”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. That’s a short story. I read
Astoria
! It’s about settling this country. I brought it with me from Missouri. I’ll lend it to you, if you like.”

“I would like that.” His sweet offer surprised me, as did his knowledge of a short story versus a book. “I wasn’t aware that you liked to read so much, Mr. Warren.”

“I figured reading is something that matters to you. I bet your father has never asked you what you like to read, now has he?”

“No. It’s a given that I do read and inform my mind and study Scripture.”

“But reading’s a pleasure and you deserve such, Eliza. You really do.” His voice was honey to a bitter tea. After a pause, he changed the subject. “I’ve been listening to your father. In church, I have.” I raised my eyebrows at this news. “He doesn’t speak much of getting what we deserve except for the disasters that befall us.” He inhaled as though speaking out of turn. “I interpret the Scripture he reads differently. Isn’t it sayin’ that we’re all worthy just by being loved by God? Even though we mess up?”

Good enough just by being born?
That hardly seemed likely but it was an intriguing thought, made more so coming from Mr. Warren.

We’d ridden north, skirting Brown and Blakely’s where my father postmastered. Rachel thought me out bringing in the cows, but since she had no idea of how long it took to round them up or milk our two, I took the chance when Mr. Warren rode out of the shade of the oak looking like a man who saw me as beautiful despite the darkness that dwelled inside. We dismounted. I spread the blanket I’d rolled in front of me. We lay back beneath the trees, me with arms crossed over my chest, he up on his elbow, his other arm stroking my wrists. The scent of horse from the blanket tickled my nose and I sneezed.

“I’m ready to commit,” he said. “I’ll let your father pray upon my head and say whatever words he wants of me, to show you that I love you with all my heart.”

I swallowed. “It’s not me you’re to love with all your heart.” But oh, I so wanted him to love me fully, even though I knew it was a greater love that would bind us if it was meant to be. I had conjured a terrible life with him, his drinking being something serious, his kindness to me a ploy to get me to give myself to him, heart and soul and body. I imagined him injured by a runaway horse and being an invalid I’d need to care for. These thoughts contained my world, made it livable especially when chaos
threatened as it did with Mr. Warren’s breath blushed sweet against my neck. My own breathing shortened, his whiskers rough against my chin. I imagined my father being outraged at our marriage. I imagined Mr. Warren’s drinking—if the rumors were true—interfering with our happiness. I imagined I could never please him. Yet my heartbeat quickened.

“If I do, will you marry me?”

“Oh, Mr. Warren, yes.”

“When?” He was so close I could see the pores in his skin where whiskers threatened.

“December, next year.” I breathed fast. “After I turn seventeen. Rachel will have learned enough by then to keep my father and his children fed. Christmas is a lovely time to wed.” I searched his eyes.
Is he serious, truly?

“It is. But must we wait until a year and a half?”

“Where will we live?” A sudden practicality raised its head.

“I’ve found a place. A donation land claim the owner wants to sell. It’s up in the hills a little ways. Lots of trees we can cut and take to the mill. Some meadow land for the small herd I’ve accumulated. There’s already a cabin. Want to see it?”

I did. But I also didn’t want to leave this place of safety, lying beneath the trees, the sound of the Calapooia River gurgling, Mr. Warren’s warmth beside me. Could this be God’s blessing, this pleasant respite from my fears? His breath sweet upon me. Despite what Rachel subscribed to, I must not let myself think of happier things, for surely then they’d disappear like birds flying into sunset. Thoughts beset the future.

I told him I didn’t want to see the cabin. Yet.

“I asked Mrs. Brown how she made such good coffee and she said she added an egg.” Rachel leaned over the coffeepot
on the stove my father had purchased for her that fall. We were learning together how to cook on it. I still preferred placing the pot inside the fireplace coals, but we were being “modern” with Rachel the kitchen head.

“I think they meant to crack the egg and put it in raw.”

“Oh, do you think so?” With a long-handled spoon she reached into the grounds, pulling out a stained, shell-intact egg.

I shook my head. How could one woman be so ignorant? That was uncharitable of me, but these incidents occurred several times a week. She lacked common sense, as Nancy called it—everyday wisdom. I tried to be kind, I really did, but her efforts always meant more work for me until I decided it was better if I just did it myself, leaving her the more pleasurable task of reading to the girls. She would be “teacher” and tell stories of her privileged life in Boston where paid maids and cooks provided the common in her common sense.

She was even worse with the cookstove. I still had Henry cut green wood as well as dried wood, but now he had to chop to fit the firebox on the stove. It was easier for me to simply start the fire with coals from the fireplace, so that meant we kept two fires going. Rachel liked the extra heat while the rest of us sweat cracklings. Our stove had six eyes with handles, six places for pots to boil, eggs to fry on, coffee to bubble up even with a whole egg plopped inside. The stove needed watching, but Rachel would start a pan and then wander away much like Martha did but she was only seven. I expected
her
to have a flighty mind; not Rachel.

And my father. He tolerated all sorts of uncommon sense from Rachel, things he’d have raised his voice about if I had done it. She left the gate to the garden open and the hogs rooted their way in. During butchering she fainted, actually swooned into a heap of crinoline-covered linens when my father made his first
cut into the abdomen of the hog whose leg she held. The limb flopped onto the back of my father’s neck, splattering blood on him, on her. She sank away and that day I . . . I disappeared too.